


wonders sit and wait

by FandomTrash24601



Series: Only Room to Rise [5]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Brotherly Love, Ciri has boundless enthusiasm, Comfort, Cuddling & Snuggling, F/M, Family, Family Dynamics, Family Fluff, Female Friendship, Festivals, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Gen, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia is Good at Feelings, Healthy Relationships, I'm tagging to be safe, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Light Angst, M/M, Multi, Panic Attacks, Romance, Sappy, Sappy Ending, Triggers, basically the Fourth of July but medieval and for the White Wolf's lands, don't worry y'all all is well, light panic attacks?, negative thought processes, oh my god what even is there to tag in this fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-09
Updated: 2020-09-09
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:14:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26377885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FandomTrash24601/pseuds/FandomTrash24601
Summary: It’s late spring, nearing summer, and the town at the base of Kaer Morhen’s mountains is all but bursting with festive spirit. Deliverance, they call the holiday, in honor of Geralt delivering them from bleak, miserable lives under the tyrannical king of Kaedwen.Title from The Amazing Devil's "Wild Blue Yonder"
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Jaskier | Dandelion, Coën (The Witcher)/Original Female Character(s), Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Only Room to Rise [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1806898
Comments: 51
Kudos: 503





	wonders sit and wait

It’s late spring, nearing summer, and the town at the base of Kaer Morhen’s mountains is all but bursting with festive spirit. Deliverance, they call the holiday, in honor of Geralt delivering them from bleak, miserable lives under the tyrannical king of Kaedwen. Geralt hates it with all the flustered passion he can muster but Jaskier loves it with all his heart, because it’s a day entirely dedicated to how good and virtuous his soulmate is.

Geralt hadn’t wanted to come, but Ciri had, and so had Astreta and Coën. So they’d merely rounded up a couple more Witchers—at Geralt’s insistence that there be at least one Witcher per human—and headed down the mountain. Ciri is currently being pursued by Alfrid, a poor young Manticore who had agreed to chaperone her without thought to the fact that Ciri refuses all efforts to be moderated. Jaskier strolls through the small city with Aiden at his side, the Cat appreciative of his more sedate pace.

“Are we going to see your parents?” Aiden asks, moving his whole head in the direction of a fragrant stall of smoked meats. Jaskier watches his nose twitch and fights to keep a smile from his face.

“Maybe after stopping at that stall you’re so interested in,” he teases.

Aiden raises his eyebrows, surprised to be caught despite the fact that he wasn’t subtle about twisting his whole head in the direction of the stall. Jaskier snorts and bodily bumps into Aiden, who predictably doesn’t move at all. Witchers are made of horrendously dense muscle.

“Come on,” he says. “It  _ does  _ smell good.”

“I love Lambert to death,” Aiden admits with a chuckle, “but the weeks after his fishing trip are a challenge. I’ve been craving anything other than fish for days now.”

“Me too.” Jaskier grins as he redirects them. “As much as I respect Lambert for his, uh, unusually effective fishing methods, there’s only so much fish my poor palate can handle at once.”

His mouth is flooding with saliva just at the smell; one of his favorite parts about festivals and holidays is all the new, exciting food to try. There’s also the dancing and singing, which he’s much better at, but of course the food is equally as enjoyable.

Astreta and Coën are walking arm-in-arm a little further ahead. Anything short of a direct threat to Astreta’s life would probably go unnoticed by Coën, but Jaskier thinks it’s cute. Astreta deserves a soulmate who sees her as the center of his world, and Coën does just that. They hadn’t been able to bear being separated, and she had relocated to become one of Kaer Morhen’s bakers before the first month was out. She’s happier there than anyone had expected, but then again, she has Coën by her side. Jaskier thinks he could be happy quite literally anywhere so long as Geralt was there with him.

“How much for two smoked links?” Aiden asks the vendor.

The vendor—a dwarvish man—looks at Jaskier, and his eyes just about bulge out of his head when he realizes just who Jaskier is. “No, sir!” He shakes his head with such vigor that his beard jerks side to side like an orange pendulum. “I ain’t makin’  _ you _ pay!”

“Aw, come on,” Jaskier prods, amused. “I insist.”

“Insist somewhere else! This whole day’s fer celebratin’  _ yer  _ partner.”

The dwarf bundles up two links, shoves them at Jaskier and Aiden, and turns to serve the next customer before Jaskier can insist a second time. He looks overwhelmed to have had such celebrities at his little pop-up shop, so Jaskier leaves him be.

“That was just my order,” Aiden says softly as they leave, sounding a little guilty. “You didn’t even get to order anything.”

“It’s alright.” Jaskier shrugs. “I don’t need it.”

“Neither did I, but you wanted some, didn’t you?”

Jaskier shrugs again, a familiar kind of anxiety tightening around his upper chest.  _ Don’t ask for anything, be content with what others see fit to give you, how dare you think of wanting anything for yourself.  _ It’s hard for him to consider such old thoughts problematic and unhealthy, but he’s working on it.

“Come on, take half.” Aiden holds out some smoked meat with a smile, the scent of it curling around Jaskier’s tongue to make his mouth water. “It’s your face that got us this for free, after all.”

“Well, if you insist.” He accepts the meat and takes a bite, then has to hold back a moan of delight. It’s quite possibly the best thing he’s ever tasted. “Oh. Oh, wow.”

Aiden has no qualms about letting out a long groan of pleasure. Jaskier snorts and shoves at him, although it does nothing. If anything, he makes even louder sounds just to spite him. It’s a little funny, he supposes, if he ignores how embarrassing it is.

There’s a wild shriek of glee from a ways down the street. Jaskier peers forward just in time to watch a young woman go flying at Astreta, all swirling skirts and flailing limbs. Coën seems tense, but Astreta opens her arms and lets the other girl crash into her with a matching squeal of joy.

“Do we want to go calm Coën down?” Jaskier suggests, chuckling. He can almost see the raised hackles from here.

“I suppose it would be the nice thing to do,” Aiden sighs around a mouthful of smoked sausage.

By the time they make it down the way, Coën looks less like he wants to tear the new girl apart. She’s a sweet-looking thing, all soft and wheat-blonde, and she’s babbling Astreta’s ear off. At least Astreta doesn’t seem to mind.

“...sked her, _ Where did Astreta get off to? _ And he was all,  _ Oh, well, didn’t you know that the Warlord took her? _ which of course I  _ didn’t, _ and I called him out on his baloney because I knew the Warlord had been to town but there was no way he’d stop by the bakery of all places and just abduct you, right? And you’d find a way to let me know if he did. But then I went and talked to that dress merchant who always knows everything, and he said  _ Well yes, the Warlord stopped by, I saw it myself, but he didn’t abduct her. They all up and left a few days later. _ And I thought to myself, I thought,  _ Well, Yvette, that’s mighty odd, since they’re so established and all. I wonder where they went, _ and of course the merchant knew that, too, and he said to me  _ Oh they went up to Wolvenberg at the base of the Wolf’s mountains, said something about family, _ and I know you don’t have any family outside of Redania so I just  _ had _ to know what had  _ actually _ happened to you, you know, as your friend, and I really was ready to march all the way to Kaer Morhen—into the jaws of the White Wolf himself—to find out what happened to you, but you’re here so I don’t have to climb that whole mountain and thank _ goodness _ for it, because I’m really not sure if I could storm in there like I had thought I could.”

And people like to call  _ Jaskier  _ chatty.

Astreta just laughs and pulls Yvette in for a hug and says, “By the gods, I missed you.”

“You clearly haven’t been abducted by the White Wolf,” Yvette continues, only slightly flushed from her extensive speaking, “since you’re here and not locked away in the Wolf’s big fortress, so what  _ are  _ you doing here?”

“I’m taking a day trip,” Astreta says, her lips twitching and her eyes sparkling. Jaskier sees where this is going from a mile away and has to stifle a smile of his own.

“From where? I heard you all moved to Wolvenberg.”

“We did, at first. Mama and papa still live here.”

“Well then where are you living? You’re not married.” She gasps and narrows her eyes. “You didn’t get married without telling your best friend, did you?”

“No, no.” Astreta laughs.

“Ah, good. Well then, where are you living? A women’s home?”

“Kaer Morhen,” Astreta says primly.

Jaskier takes great joy in watching the pure incomprehension that takes over Yvette’s expression. He knows that Astreta does too. So many of Kaer Morhen inhabitants are nigh unfazeable that it’s a great joy to play with those who aren’t, like Yvette.

“So—“ Yvette sputters. “So he  _ did _ abduct you? The Wolf? But he’s—But you’re—?”

“Nobody  _ abducted _ her,” Coën growls, his patience having worn thin. “The White Wolf doesn’t abduct  _ anybody.” _

“Who—” Jaskier sees the exact moment when she realizes Astreta’s company includes two Witchers. He’s been wondering how long it would take. She goes paler than Geralt’s hair, if that’s at all possible, and Astreta only giggles and holds out an arm to support Yvette. “Oh dear.”

“This is Coën. He’s my soulmate.”

The chivalrous Witcher that he is, Coën offers her a tight nod instead of snarling.

“Hello,” Yvette says weakly, and turns her attention back to Astreta. Jaskier turns his head and muffles a laugh in Coën’s shoulder. “So… that’s why you moved here?”

“No. I didn’t meet Coën until after I got here.”

“Then—?” Yvette stares at Astreta in complete befuddlement. “Then why...?”

Astreta grins like a wolf—Kaer Morhen’s gotten to her—and gestures to Jaskier. “It turns out that my brother isn’t dead, but he couldn’t move to Lettenhove because he’s Geralt’s soulmate.”

Jaskier smiles and waves. She offers a hesitant smile in return, like she knows she’s being pulled into a trap but doesn’t yet know how it’ll get her.

“And Geralt is…?”

Poor Yvette looks terribly out of her element.

Coën answers Yvette’s question with a grunt. “The Wolf.”

And if that wasn’t enough, Aiden adds: “The one you planned on marching into the jaws of,” in the most guileless voice he has, like he’s genuinely trying to help clarify.

Yvette offers them all a pained, close lipped smile through which a squeak works its way.

Astreta laughs and pulls Yvette into another hug. “Oh, I’ve missed you. Don’t be so worried, Coën and Aiden are harmless. Mostly.”

“Ciri’s scarier,” Jaskier jokes, and it must be part of her magic to hear her name from a thousand kilometers away because at just that moment Ciri comes bounding towards them. Alfrid is hot on her heels, but looks a little ragged.

“Jas!” she shouts, launching herself at him like he’s got Geralt’s muscle mass. It’s only Aiden catching the both of them that prevents him from hitting the ground.

“Darling little menace,” he greets her fondly. “How are you?”

“Nobody’s making me pay for anything because today’s all about celebrating my dad. It’s awesome!”

Yvette lets out a sharp, frightened laugh, and it’s enough to draw Ciri’s attention. She wiggles out of Jaskier’s grip and walks over to Yvette with all the intensely deliberate footfall her father’s been able to teach her. Yvette quails in the face of her and shrinks back.

“Hi!” Ciri offers her brightest smile. “Who’re you?”

“This is my best friend,” Astreta says, barely holding in laughter. “She came all the way from Redania to make sure that your father hadn’t kidnapped me.”

Yvette, for all the energy and vivacity she had earlier, looks like she’s about to faint. Jaskier’s not so sure that Coën would bother to catch her.

“Dad doesn’t kidnap people unless they deserve it,” Ciri says primly.

“I’m—I’m sure. Princess.”

After catching his breath, Alfrid manages to lure Ciri away from Yvette. Jaskier finishes off his smoked sausage and watches Yvette’s conversation with Astreta play out.

“You should come visit Kaer Morhen!” Astreta suggests with a sharp smile.

Yvette stands with her mouth half-open, and Jaskier almost see her doing her best to formulate a polite refusal, all of which crumble when Astreta next speaks.

“Geralt would find you terribly amusing.”

Aiden makes a sound like choked back laughter and Jaskier elbows him sharply in the side, only to receive a reciprocal blow that almost knocks him cleanly off of his feet.

“I’m telling Geralt,” he mutters under his breath, his lips tugging up into a smile despite his best efforts.

“Go for it, bardling.”

“Well,” Yvette stammers, “I—I suppose if the, uh, if the White Wolf would wish it. I can… hardly refuse such generosity, can I not?”

“Calm yourself, Vettie,” Astreta says with clear, delighted laughter. “He’s not nearly as bad as the rumors make him out to be. My wonderful brother is his soulmate, after all.”

Yvette looks at him, halfway into a tussle with a Witcher without any fear, and doesn’t look comforted. He offers, “Our parents will be there,” in an effort to calm the poor thing down before she really passes out.

“We’ll need to get going if we don’t want to be late,” Coën observes.

Astreta links arms with both Yvette and Coën, dragging her friend along with her to the bakery. Aiden and Jaskier fall behind them, still swatting at each other like brothers. In a sense, it’s true—Aiden is a Witcher, one of Geralt’s “brothers” by default even if he isn’t a Wolf, and Jaskier and Geralt are essentially married, which makes them something like brother-in-laws.

“There you lot are!” mama calls from the window as they approach. “And—goodness, is that Yvette?”

“It is,” Astreta declares proudly, and laughs again. “She came to rescue me from the big bad White Wolf.”

Mama laughs as she pulls the door open to let them inside. “Oh, Geralt’s a dear, he’d never kidnap anybody without reason.”

“That’s what Ciri said,” Coën says with a smirk. Yvette clings tighter to Astreta.

“Oh, don’t be frightened,” Mama says as she ushers them all into the bakery. They’ve shut down early so that they can head to Kaer Morhen for dinner, like a proper family event. “Where’s Ciri, the little dear?”

“Off running Alfrid ragged, probably.”

“That sounds right,” she agrees warmly. Jaskier’s the one who swoops in for a hug, squeezing her as tightly as he dares. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to this, the ability to hug a motherly mother almost as often as he’d like. He hopes he doesn’t; he hopes that he experiences the same renewed thrill every time he hugs her for the rest of her life. “We’ll wait here for her, then, before asking dear Yenna to open up a portal for us.”

Jaskier smiles as he falls back to where Aiden stands.  _ Yenna, _ his mother calls her, as if she’s another sister to Jaskier and Astreta instead of the most powerful sorceress on the Continent. Yennefer pretends that she doesn’t like the nickname, but he’s seen her face when she thinks nobody’s looking.

A loud whoop announces Ciri’s appearance, and she tears into the bakery with all the grace of a hurricane. There’s some large swath of fabric in her arms, shimmery green to match her eyes and tasseled on two of the edges.

“Jas!” she shouts, throwing herself at him and pulling whatever fabric she’s got around his shoulders. The tassels brush his wrists, the pinpricks of sensation spreading to immobilize his entire body. He swears his heart skips a beat in his chest. “I got the most beautiful shawl!”

“‘S great,” he manages to stammer, smile fixed and plastic. His skin is searing hot, but his bones are so cold that the lightest touch might shatter all of them. “Go say hello to gram and gramps.”

Ciri scampers right into his mother’s arms, and she’s hardly turned away before the shawl is being ripped from his shoulders. He clenches his fists to try and regain control over his shaking body and leans into the hand on his back.

“Breathe,” Aiden murmurs directly into his ear. “Come on, now. In… out… good, like that. Just like that.”

In his periphery, Jaskier catches a flash of green as Alfrid folds up the shawl into as small of a bundle as he can manage. There’s sharp pain in his chest, and it’s a monumental effort to keep a straight face as he focuses on breathing.

“How did you…?”

“Aside from the fact that you immediately reeked of panic so strong that I thought you were going to drop into a dead faint?” Aiden whispers. “I was with Eskel when we took Tretogor.”

Jaskier turns to look at him, the shock helping to lift the haze of panic from his mind. If he thinks back on it, tries to recall the faces of the Witchers who had flooded through the broken door… Yes, he remembers Aiden.

“You were the one to kill him,” Jaskier breathes.

Aiden sounds smug when he says, “I was,” and his hands aren’t as soothing as Geralt’s but the palm rubbing up and down his back feels good anyway.

“Good.”

His body is still torn between cold and hot and his ribs still ache, but he’s already feeling closer to normal. Thank all the gods for the sharp noses and quick reflexes of Witchers. Even if he can feel phantom hands covering every inch of his body until he wants to rip all of his skin right off, he’s aware of the present moment.

When Ciri turns back to Jaskier, she frowns. “Where’d the shawl go?”

“I’ve got it,” Alfrid says.

“That shade of green isn't my color, darling.” Jaskier smiles at her. “Makes me look entirely ghastly.”

While Jaskier’s parents laugh delightedly over Yvette’s presence, Ciri takes the shawl back from Alfrid and wraps it around herself. It looks nice on her, but the sight of it makes Jaskier want to be sick. She shouldn’t be wearing such a depraved garment, doesn’t she know what it  _ means? _ All the insinuations about status and desire?

Coën must pull out the xenovox when Jaskier’s not looking, because there’s a portal opening before he’s even aware that Yennefer was called. Not that he’s complaining. Ciri rushes through the portal first, followed immediately by Alfrid, and once that horrendous shawl is out of his sight he lets out a gusty breath of relief. He wonders if he can burn it without Ciri noticing. Probably not.

Astreta, by Coën’s side, makes a questioning face. He shakes his head, not wanting to talk about—about  _ any  _ of it, really. If he gets his way, they will never know even half of what happened to him after he was sold. All it would do is hurt them.

Jaskier loiters while his parents smother Geralt in hugs. His mother is lecturing Geralt about how long it’s been since she’s last seen him, and Geralt actually looks properly chastised. It’s quite the sight.

Once his parents have had their hugs, Jaskier moves in for his own. His skin is chilled to the touch if Geralt’s bear hug is any indication, but Jaskier just buries his face in Geralt’s neck and breathes in the old-stone scent of his soulmate.

“What happened?” Geralt murmurs, mouth pressed to Jaskier’s ear. His hair falls in a white curtain around them, a temporary shield from prying gazes. “Are you alright?”

“Ciri bought a shawl,” he breathes into the crook of Geralt’s neck. “She hugged me and then threw it over my shoulders. Not that she knew, of course, but—”

“Fuck, Jask.” His broad hands run up and down Jaskier’s sides.

“‘S alright. She didn’t know. And Aiden was quick to take it off.”

“I’m glad you’re alright, then.” They step apart then, although not before Geralt presses a gentle kiss to Jaskier’s temple.

“White Wolf,” Coën says to Geralt, bowing. Jaskier resists a chuckle at how tightly Yvette is clinging to Astreta, her eyes comically wide. “May I introduce to you Yvette of Lettenhove, friend of Astreta.”

“On a side note,” Aiden says with a smirk, “Some locations in Redania think that you’re prone to kidnapping entire families.”

Yvette squeaks and buries her face in Astreta’s shoulder before shuffling to the forefront and dropping into an admirably deep curtsy. “My lord the White Wolf,” she says, quaking.

“Do stand,” Geralt tells her. “You look as if you’re about to faint. I can assure you that I don’t kidnap families; they relocated because Jaskier is here.”

“So I was told, my lord,” Yvette says, not looking him in the eyes.

“Yvette,” Asterta says, laughing. “Calm down. Witchers can smell fear, you know.”

With a thoroughly humiliated groan, Yvette buries her face in her hands.

The focus on Yvette is broken when Jaskier’s parents catch sight of Yennefer and rush to greet her. Yennefer’s laugh is painfully genuine when Jaskier’s father sweeps her up into a hug that lifts her feet from the floor, swinging her back and forth like she’s his own child. He doesn’t know what their deal is with collecting traumatized children, but it’s done nothing but help so he’ll take it gladly.

Astreta, Coën, and Yvette disappear while Yennefer suffers the bombardment of affection, probably for a tour of the keep, and when Ciri rushes after them Alfrid follows her.

“Thanks,” Jaskier says to Aiden, tucked into Geralt’s side. “For earlier. And also for killing Vizimir.”

Aiden laughs. “Trust me, that was a pleasure. Sick bastard.”

“Do you want to head back to our rooms for a bit?” Geralt asks. “Gather yourself a bit.”

Jaskier leans into him and feels a stupidly fond smile creep onto his face. “I’d love to. Looks like my parents are occupied with Yennefer right now anyway.”

“Did you hear your mother lecturing me?” Geralt asks as they make their way towards their rooms.

Jaskier laughs and feels some of the ugly, prickling tension beneath his skin fade away. “I did. You looked properly ashamed of yourself.”

“She’s.. persuasive.”

“That was very diplomatically put.”

“Thank you.”

Jaskier flops onto their bed when they make it to their rooms, all splayed out, and makes grabby hands at Geralt where he stands smiling softly at the edge of the bed. Geralt gives in before too long and climbs onto the bed, then lowers himself down so that his hips settle in the hollow of Jaskier’s.

“I’m going to crush you,” Geralt mumbles into his neck.

“What a way to go,” Jaskier chokes, already breathless. “‘S alright. I like the pressure.”

“I can put pressure on you without suffocating you, Jask,” Geralt grumbles. He folds his arms beneath himself so that he’s putting a little less weight on Jaskier’s poor chest, just enough so that Jaskier can feel the pressure without being unable to breathe. He keeps his face buried in Jaskier’s neck, warm breaths sending shivers up and down Jaskier’s spine.

“So you can,” he sighs, relieved to be able to breathe properly again.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Geralt asks. “Or do you just want to lay here?”

Jaskier brings his hands up so he can run his fingers through Geralt’s long, silky hair. “I think… I just want to lay here, for now.”

“That’s fine,” Geralt mumbles sleepily. “We can stay here until the meal bells chime.”

They’re still and quiet for so long that they both almost fall asleep. Geralt’s weight has proved a good balm for his remaining discomfort, and by the time he finds words to say he’s virtually a human puddle. He would think Geralt was asleep if not for the way that his fingertips are swirling nonsensical patterns across Jaskier’s ribs.

“I don’t want Ciri to have a shawl,” he whispers. “But I can’t—What am I supposed to say?  _ I have trauma related to shawls, Ciri, so you can’t have one.” _

“You could,” Geralt says in that gravelly, cusp-of-sleep voice of his. “She’d understand; she knows, vaguely, where you came from.”

“But that’s selfish,” he protests. “My past shouldn’t dictate her clothing choices.”

“Hmm.”

“I just… Ugh!” He removes his hands from Geralt’s hair to press his palms into his eye sockets until they throb.

“Hey,” Geralt says. There are sword-calloused hands wrapped around his wrists that draw his hands away from his face, and slightly chapped lips that press love into both of his palms. “This problem isn’t unsolvable.”

Jaskier kind of wishes he could press Geralt’s face between his hands, but the kisses are nice too. He relaxes into them and stares up at Geralt’s handsome face, cast in gold by the sinking sun.

“I know,” he says quietly. “We’ll figure it out.”

Bell chimes ring throughout the keep, a summon to dinner. They’ll be late if they don’t leave soon, and Jaskier knows that Geralt is itchy about punctuality. It would be cruel to keep him here longer with tiny little problems.

“Come on,” Geralt whispers against Jaskier’s palm. “Come have dinner with me, love.”

Jaskier smiles and uses the hand pressed against Geralt’s face to pet him, fingers smoothing over his strong eyebrows and his temple. His eyes shine a true gold in this hour.

“Well,” he says, teasing with all the overwhelming fondness in his heart, “how could I refuse such an earnest request?”

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! College is,,,,, so much. Guys nobody adequately warned me about this. But! I've finished this for you guys! Because writing is my main source of joy right now even if I can barely find the time to put down a sentence a day! Anyways, let me know what you thought of this! Comments and kudos refresh the soul,


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